Masquerades
by Oliveydoughnuts
Summary: Lydia's convinced she's doing good, she might be breaking a rule or two but it's only to save the populace. What will happen when a hermits death results in Holmes's and her affairs become entangled?
1. Chapter 1

**Ok this is MASQUERADES; it is set in 1894 just after Holmes returns from the dead. Ok, I warn you the most of the slash will probably be in the later sections, there won't that much in the rest. This might be considered a Mary Sue, I don't know.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing apart from Lydia Winters, Martin Rison, Jason Ire, Robert Norwood, Mr Angels, Julie Watership, Frederick Rison, The Crimson Leaf Affair, The murder of George Renel, Olivia Angles, the plotline in general, Lanestreet Road, Streetroad Lane, Roadstreet lane, constable Groats, Shortleat hall and Shinwell Johnson's door, which if you think about it is rather a lot. lol. **

**MASQUERADES **

**Chapter 1; "Nothing is permanent Watson."**

Tears fought to coat her eyes and trickle down her pale cheeks but she kept them back. To cry would be pointless, she still had a chance she would always have a chance. Yet an acting career had somewhat lost its appeal in her eyes. The constant smiling made her jaw ache, the makeup she wore marred her skin and she seemed to spend her entire life in the theatre, struggling on tights or shirts. Mrs Watership bustled in with a mug of soup and thrust it into Lydia's unresisting hands: "Cheer up dearie, things will get better!"

"And when they do? I'll spend a couple of weeks contented, a month even, until I fall headfirst into another dilemma!"

"Don't be so negative!"

"Nothing is permanent Julie!"

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"Nothing is permanent Watson!" stated Holmes suddenly. The doctor glanced across at his companion. He was stretched languidly athwart the sofa in a cat-like fashion, his eyes fixated upon his pipe. "Day after day we make futile attempts to climb the ladder to money, fame and friendship. But yet wealth, aristocracy and popularity once gained can slip through ones fingers like dust, leaving us to fall with them and begin from square one once more!"

Watson sighed; Holmes was utterly incorrigible in this mood. With nothing to occupy the mind which made him so singular he fell to cocaine, dangerous scientific experiments or indeed pessimistic philosophising! "You speak like one who has seen too much of the world!" commented Watson to which he simply received a grunt for an answer, "Truly," he continued, with more than a touch of irony, "the only human beings who can ascend to the peak of ecstasy are those who are un-failingly optimistic!"

Holmes chuckled, recognising the jibe: "Or of course those who can laugh when insulted!" he retorted innocently. Watson smiled despite himself an again the two relapsed into silence. The detective engrossed in his thoughts, and the doctor in a medical text.

Half an hour or so passed before their reveries were interrupted by the clang of the bell from below. Holmes turned his gaze to the door, suddenly alert. A muffled greeting floated up from the entrance hall and a pair of feet could be heard ascending the staircase. "It seems," the detective murmured, "my prediction will be proved true, redundancy is not everlasting! We have a case Watson!"

Mrs Hudson opened the door and after tutting at the state of the room handed something to Holmes; "A Mr Robert Norwood here to see you sir."

He made a cursory glance over the calling card: "Send him up!" She turned to go but he stopped her, "Oh and tell him to be careful of the Ming vase on the windowsill, a man with such large hands could do it considerable damage!" She nodded and left the room showing no surprise at his deduction, she had grown used to it long ago.

"Large hands?" frowned Watson slightly wearily. He had stopped asking out of actual curiosity long ago and now he questioned merely to please Holmes, something which more than often he succeeded in doing!

"It's simply a matter of deduction!" the detective drawled, "There is a sizable muddy imprint on one corner of this paper. If you look closely you can see a dent from a fingernail too. I could not see any such grime on our meticulously tidy landlady's hand so I assumed it must come from our visitor. As I mentioned it is of an unusually great size, ergo our Mr Norwood posses large hands, and if I'm not very much mistaken this is him now!" A flustered young man stumbled in. His rumpled mop of sandy hair hanging in a dishevelled fashion over his face; "Mr Holmes," he choked, "I am at my wits end what to do!"

"Please, take a seat!" muttered the detective, interlacing his fingers and appraising his guest over them.

"You must excuse my current appearance gentlemen! I have had the most dreadful shock, and although the police assure me that they have everything under control, (Holmes snorted in amusement) I felt that your services would be more than appreciated!"

"They very often are! Now if you would be so obliging as to give me the facts of the case it would assist me greatly!"

"Yes, yes of course!" Mr Norwood mumbled, then plunged headlong into his tale.

"You won't have heard of this particular case, I've made sure the police keep investigations as clandestine as possible due to the, err… circumstances. I suppose I'd better start with me. I spent my three years at Cambridge then after a month or so of following my whims I took a job as a secretary for a Mr Angels. He was a short-tempered man given to excessive drinking; nonetheless I worked for him happily enough for a year. You see despite being very old he was the only surviving relative of a Mrs Rison, who has recently passed away leaving her quite considerable fortune solely to him. He used to be a hermit you know, no one saw much of him and I'm afraid that the money went to his head. Well, as I was saying everything went perfectly normally until last week when, I don't know whether I can even bear to say it, he was found dead in the grounds with no mark upon him except a look of complete and absolute terror upon his features! Lestrade, the inspector from Scotland Yard, you know him? He has already explored the possibility of someone after his in-heritance, but yet no one has come forward to make a claim to the money, and it has nowhere to go! Both his and my affairs are in disarray; please for the love of god help me!"

Sherlock Holmes lent back in his chair, his features were a mask as usual but he was obviously intrigued; "Where did this… catastrophic turn of events occur?"

"Shortleat hall!"

"Yes…yes, very good!" He spoke to himself but with the chiming of the clock to mark eleven in the morning he collected himself and turned to his companions once more; "Come, come then, the day is still young let us make our way to the Kentish countryside!"

"Wait a minute!" cried Norwood, "How may I ask did you know where…"

He had not finished his sentence before Holmes cut him of; "You have a train ticket protruding from your pocket. It was purchased at Ashford, Kent. It was only natural to assume you'd come straight form Shortleat!"

Norwood smiled; "I can see what has made you so well known. However I spoke to inspector Lestrade about calling you in, he disapproved but said if I must I was to bring you to Scotland Yard first as he had some things to run over with you before you begin on the case." Holmes rolled his eyes with poignant exaggeration, but then after murmuring something about restrictions snatched up his hat from the back of his chair, "Very well, come Watson we must begin with all possible haste!"

**What do you think? Please R&R. I shall update tomorrow.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Reviews people PLEASE? No sorry that was rude; I crave them as Watson craves reprimanding Holmes for his craving of drugs which in turn crave usage. I have just re-read the entire Mary Russell series over night so please excuse the grammar mistakes.**

**Chapter 2; "I'm a great fan of yours!"**

The carriage clattered into the gravelled driveway causing a sound resembling heavy rain to erupt around it. As soon as the horses had halted Holmes leapt from his seat and alighted the carriage. He was met almost instantaneously by Lestrade and a smart young officer in plain clothes. The former of the two gave the detective a curt greeting; however he was studying the latter with interest. He was short and slim without a hint of muscle on his meagre frame. However he made up for his lack of physical prowess with his bright, piercing green eyes, mottled dark hair and accentuated chin. "Inspector Vincent Winters sir!" he grinned acknowledging Holmes's gaze, "I'm a great fan of yours!"

"I'm very flattered to hear it!" chuckled the detective. Their conversation would have continued further if not for Lestrade sighing theatrically, "Are you quite finished Mr Holmes?"

"Yes… of course, for now. Now, what were these err… items you wished to clear up with me?"

"Three things, firstly I suppose Mr Norwood has informed you of his wish to keep everything surreptitious?" Holmes nodded slowly. "Good secondly I thought you might want to view the body in forensics at Kent for any, ha, clues?"

"Yes, that would be convenient, go on."

"Thirdly will you take Winters along with you? Only due to the enormous amounts of money involved…"

Holmes bore a tolerant expression; "I trust that he is competent?"

"Yes indeed, more than competent if his record is correct, he's only been here as inspector for two months and I have had very little dealings with him, but apparently he possesses skills similar to your own!" Holmes looked sceptical, but resisted the urge to say anything. So it was that five minutes later Winters, Holmes, Watson and Norwood left Scotland Yard to board the carriage that was to take them to Charring cross and hence forth to Shortleat where they would view the body.

It was an odd carriage and train ride, simply because the roles of the passengers were completely reversed; Norwood and Watson sat dissonantly in the corners while Holmes and the newcomer were engrossed in animated conversation about topics varying from hydrochloric acid to the keeping of bees to the case of the speckled band. They spoke continually hardly paying attention to the other occupants of the carriage or the passing countryside. Watson sighed, he was more than slightly hurt, if it wasn't for Winters, Holmes would be deep in moody contemplation, he certainly wouldn't be talking. However the doctor suppressed his jealousy, after all it would only be for _this_ case.

At one thirty that afternoon the train pulled up and the small company stopped for an insubstantial lunch, (during which the subject of human ears was discussed!) before taking a cab to the local police station. A lumbering constable arrived to greet them, and take their coats.

"Thank you Mr… err Groats." murmured Holmes.

"My god sir, how did you know my name? It's amazing…"

"-ly obvious!" Grinned Winters before the detective could answer, "You are wearing a badge which appears to be bearing the name Groats, that was a simple piece of sight-work and hardly worth the alias as a "perception"!" Holmes laughed, Watson and Norwood smirked and the constable who had received the butt of the joke blushed; "I'm sorry sir I had not recollected my name tag! If you would just step this way to view the body." They did so, Holmes and Winters passing a whispered comment then smiling.

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The room is quite well lit, with an expensive looking table and chair to furnish it. Upon the bench a well dressed woman is seated her teeth clenched at the sound of swearing and muffled phumps seeping through the door. Suddenly a man staggers in. He is reeling about in fits of drunkenness smashing against the walls, "BEER," he cries in a half groan half shout, "Is the giver of life, I love it!"

The woman turns away tears pricking at her eyes, "How can you say that, it bestows nothing but pain for all involved!"

"Courage!" he gurgles, smiling wickedly at her, "It gives courage! I could never have got any of this without it!"

She is suddenly alert, "What do you mean?"

"Without it I would never have had the courage to do in your Frederick!" He laughs madly as if he has made a joke, however his wife is standing now; "Y-y-you killed him? But the accident…"

"A lie of course, how blind can you be woman? It was faked, yeah I killed him," he rocked unsteadily forward, "but what are you going to do about it?"

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"Very sparsely furnished, this room!" Holmes commented as they were lead in.

"The dead very rarely need embellishments, and it might be deemed insensitive to have a gramophone or paintings positioned at our fine police forces disposal!" Winters replied, again causing the assembled company to grin reluctantly. The body lay prostrate on a table in the centre of the room. It was completely naked save for a pair of shorts. Holmes strode forward purposefully, but then gasped inaudibly and started back at the sight of the face. It was contorted into a grimace of absolute and complete horror. His mouth was wide open and his teeth were in the process of decaying inside it. His lips were drawn back over rotting gums, and his whole head was twisted so violently on the axis of the neck that it seemed surprising to know that it wasn't broken. However, it was his eyes that were really the most disturbing; they were popping sickeningly far out of the skull, and although they were lacking the vital fire of life, they still bore traces of the terror the poor man must have felt before he died. Everyone stood just staring at his countenance for a few moments, before Winters woke them from their trance: "Grim… very grim. Although I am not a medical man, I confess I think heart attack is almost certainly the cause of death."

Norwood muttered something about poison, but Holmes interrupted. "Poison? I think not. I would imagine the Ashford pathological department has had a chance to examine and analyse the contents of the stomach. If they had found anything, I trust the good Constable Groats would have told us. No, I am inclined to think along the same lines as Inspector Winters."

Winters smiled vaguely at him, then turned back to the body, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He felt as if he had known the man in front of him some time ago. He frowned, then started as something caught his eye: "You say this Mr Angels was a hermit?"

"Well, yes," replied Norwood bemusedly.

"In which country?"

"Why, in Yorkshire, I believe."

"Then please explain why it is that he is tanned?"

Everyone gasped. It was true, it wasn't immediately obvious, but there was a brown tinge to his wrinkled old skin. Watson stepped forward to take a closer look: "This is deep set, not recent. He must have spent some considerable time in a tropical country, like Africa or India."

"India, I fancy," mumbled Holmes, "look at those old scars on his chest. They resemble those that might be inflicted by a _shikari;_ I would guess this man had spent some time in the army."

Norwood shuddered. "To survive those he must have been strong physically and mentally. What on earth could have given him shock enough to kill him?"

Winters sighed, "People grow older, they lose their vigour, and these gashes are decades old, he will have changed. Mr Holmes, it is my opinion we shall get no more here."

The detective nodded. "I agree entirely, on to Shortleat then!"

**R&R or I'll stop writing!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3; "By God Winters!"**

The building that rose up before the group was of enormous proportions. It was compiled out of large pale bricks, with windows appearing at regular intervals. It would have been extremely tranquil, if it hadn't been for the masses of police swarming over the grounds. Holmes and Winters rolled their eyes simultaneously at the mass of broken grass stems, henceforth lost clues, before them.

"Where was the body found?" Watson asked Constable Groats, who had accompanied them. He indicated vaguely a spot particularly crammed with officers. They stumbled unsteadily down the steep hill towards it.

"He was lying on his back when they found him, arms raised as if to shield his face," Constable Groats explained. Reluctantly the police force parted to let them through at a word from Winters and a patch of wet grass was revealed. Holmes sniffed; "Not very informative!"

Winters grinned, "I suppose they've tried interviewing that snail over there?"

Sniggering Groats answered, "Yes sir, no results!" Smiling softly Holmes began to pace the area examining the ground intently, Winters attention however was not focused upon the dewy grass but on the surrounding area. Suddenly he began striding purposefully towards a clump of trees on the outskirts of the grounds. There he fell to his knees and began running his fingers through the foliage. In bemusement the others jogged, up to join him then stood in a semicircle around his person. A few minutes passed then Holmes, uttering a cry of understanding, also began ravaging the grass as if searching for something. Nothing happened for a moment or two, then suddenly Holmes leapt to his feet a gun in his gloved hands; "Ah Ha Winters, I found it!"

The inspector cried out triumphantly, "Brilliant!" He was about to take the firearm from him, but checked himself, "Groats," the astonished officer nodded apprehensively, "I want you to take this gun to forensics and check it for fingerprints. It wasn't used to shoot our victim, but it may be of relevance."

"I'll fetch some constables right away sir!" he answered then bounded of.

"By god Winters," gaped Norwood, "how did you know that you'd find that there?"

"I didn't. At the place where the body was first discovered I simply noticed my surroundings. If I had killed this man I would had have made for the trees rather than the house, the road or indeed the lake. It also struck me that perhaps our criminal had come armed with a weapon with the intention of attacking Mr Angles as we must call him for the present moment, however the mere sight of this person with the weapon was enough to cause the senile old man to have a heart attack and die!"

"Humph, that was convenient of him!" Muttered Norwood insensitively.

Winters ignored him and carried on regardless; "When I reached the trees I saw the road beyond the foliage and I knew that they would have dropped their weapon here, if they had one, for fear that someone passing along the highway would see it!" There was a gap where everyone searched for flaws in the theory, not least Holmes, then Watson clasping his hands with a clapping sound remarked; "It's going to take sometime for the results to come back from forensics, we won't get them until tomorrow, in the interval, well dinner wouldn't go amiss!"

Norwood had invited them to stay at Shortleat hall for despite the dreadful tragedy that had occurred there it was certainly magnificent. So it was that that evening just after dinner before they retired to there respective rooms they were seated around a fire, pipes in mouths and in the case of Holmes and surprisingly Winters violins by their sides. An hour or so passed in companionable silence, then Watson, putting down his book heaved himself from the easy chair, "I think I shall retire for the night!" he stated.

Holmes's client stood as well, "I also. Hopefully we shall have an equally productive, henceforth tiring day tomorrow." They both looked expectantly at Holmes and Winters but they did not look up from there reveries; "Err… Goodnight!" mumbled Holmes.

"Sleep well!" Winters managed before relapsing to his thoughts once more.

"Well see you tomorrow then!" Norwood smiled weakly and he and the doctor departed.

Several more hours passed and the inspector had dozed of into a state of half consciousness, he was nearly asleep when the most beautiful violin music began moaning though the large room like moonlight. Winters flickered open his eyes to see Holmes, standing, drawing the bow expertly across the instrument. He smiled and rose from his chair, catching up his own violin in the process; "A concerto I believe!" He chuckled.

Holmes turned swiftly to him; "I had not realised you were still here, I apologise for disturbing you!"

"It's quite alright. I would have hoped that you had already deduced that I play myself?"

Holmes nodded and laughed, "Yes, the enhanced muscular tendon on your hand, the slight indent in the flesh between your thumb and first finger, and of course the violin in your possesion were all vital clues!"

Winters answered simply by supporting his violin on his shoulder and rallying off a few bars of Mozart's 5th symphony. The detective obviously taking it as an invitation to begin a completion played the opening notes of on of Beethoven's duets. After waiting a minute Winters joined in with the accompaniment, startled Holmes stumbled on a note only to have the inspector take on where he had erred leaving himself to play the background of the music. Irritably he caught it up; looking for any opportunities he could slip in and swap their roles once more. Winters, seeing what he was doing speeded up, playing his notes more vigorously and lingering on each for a shorter period. Annoyed Holmes increased his speed also! In a remarkably short time the once enchanting piece was a confused mass of broken notes. Each man glared at his instrument willing it to go faster. The piece, if it could be called as such, was rising and reaching its climax when suddenly there was a sharp crash and a china ornament fell from the mantle piece. It took a moment for the two to realise what had happened. Slowly Holmes lowered his elbow, which had upon performing a particularly violent stroke soared out and knocked the offending ornament from its place. They stood there in silence for a few minutes then Winters began to chuckle, Holmes not long after him. Their mirth erupted slowly but soon they had to sit down they were laughing so hard; both amused at their own stupidity. After a time they fell silent and Winters began to scrape up the shattered china. "You're a good man!" remarked Holmes suddenly.

"I observe a similar trait in you!" the inspector replied a smile flickering across his features. _I am a good man! _He thought._ But not in the way you mean Mr Holmes!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4; "Very interesting."**

Lydia stared out across the ocean; blue, seemingly endless, was it the sea reflecting the sky or the sky reflecting the sea? She smiled, she knew which it was but out here the two looked so similar. Wearily she turned away and began pacing the deck of the ship, the skirts she hated so much billowing about in the wind. She payed them no head and sat down heavily upon a bench. Life would never, could never be the same after this. With her father dead and her mother struggling out of a crater of depression. Not to mention their change of address, India to England. Lydia would be expected to behave like a lady, engage in trivial, polite conversation. There would be no outlet for her intellect, she would never be allowed to sprint through the jungles with the tribes people again. She began to cry silently, letting her tears fall unchecked down her cheeks for what must have been the hundredth time that day.

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It was ten in the morning and Lestrade, who had travelled up from London at the news of Winters discovery, was sitting along with several other constables in the entrance hall of Shortleat. Also present were Norwood, Watson, Holmes and Winters who were sitting in a feverish impatience to hear the results of the forensics tests. "Well?" choked the inspector breathlessly. Lestrade eyed his comrade, and enjoying their rapture he began to tell them; "The results reveal that the last person to have handled the gun with his bare hands is a man we certainly do have in our records, they are the finger prints of a Mr Martin Rison!" Holmes drew breath suddenly his mouth opening slightly. Annoyed that the detective might spoil his story Lestrade continued quickly, "Mrs Olivia Rison's husband, and a man who was hung for murder two years ago! And what's more in front of hundreds of people!

The company sat in silent shock for a few moments, "Very interesting…" murmured Holmes to no one in particular. "VERY INTERESTING?" Exclaimed Norwood; "It's down right impossible! Do another test Lestrade, I demand it!"

Lestrade shook his head, "There's no point we've done several already!" Norwood began to protest but Winters interjected; "Don't be so hasty in your conclusions sir! I have known such things to have happened before!"

"Yes such as the crimson leaf affair of '82 or the murder of a certain George Renel in '89!" Holmes muttered.

"Then what shall you do about it?" stipulated his distraught client.

"We shall be spending the rest of the day in the most disreputable back streets of London; answers are to be found with the questionable!"

Two and a half hours later Watson, Winters and Holmes had transformed themselves into dockworkers, their jackets and faces disfigured with grime. "Well we look the part!" commented the inspector, surveying himself in the full length mirror, "It just remains to be seen whether we can act it!"

"I think we shall manage!" Holmes smiled. "Come I have a hansom outside ready to take us to Roadstreet Lane which is where we shall begin our search!"

"Roadstreet Lane? Surely you don't mean you're going to see him?" Watson expostulated.

Holmes rolled his eyes, "Certainly I am going to visit Mr Johnson, I presume that's who you are referring to!"

Winters looked awkwardly from one to the other; "Could someone please enlighten me?"

Watson opened his mouth to answer but Holmes cut him off; "He shall discover the nature of our acquaintance in but thirty minutes, let it be a surprise!"

It was a dank, dark alleyway in which the cab deposited them. Slime oozed out of cracks in the walls and moss grew over the stone slabs that served as the pavement. Ironically not one of the words in its sobriquet, Roadstreet Lane, quite fitted it. "Gutter" as Winters showed no hesitation in remarking would be much more appropriate. They turned in at a door that could only really be described as offensive! After rapping smartly (if gingerly) on the mouldering wood, Holmes turned to Winters and whispered into his ear, "Do not divulge your real name, our friend does not encourage policemen!" The inspector gulped but before he could say anything the repugnant slither of wood swung in wards to reveal a hulking man who was worthy of a similar description! "What the…" he began but Holmes interposed.

"Relax Johnson it's me, Sherlock Holmes, and no doubt you will remember my colleague and associate Dr Watson?"

The man nodded and turned his suspicious eye onto Winters; "An' 'oos this?"

"Err Mr Johnson this is Mr Win…slow" The inspector stuck out a hand, he regarded it with disdain but took it anyway. "Nice to meet you!" he sneered.

Clearing his throat Holmes drew attention back to himself, "Ehem… We wished to enquire as to the location of a particular gentleman."

Johnson grinned; "Enquire away!"

Holmes permitted himself a smile but then continued, "Can you find me the where about of a Martin Rison? I know it is unlikely as he will almost certainly be incognito."

Shinwell laughed, "For once Mr Holmes you're wrong, I know exactly who you mean and where he lives!"

Holmes stared expectantly at him; "Well?"

"Number four Streetroad Lane!" The detective gave a satisfied smile and slipped some money into his informant's hand. "Nice perpetrating business with you!" his lip twitched enigmatically, then beckoning to Winters and Watson led them from the godforsaken little shack.

"I wander why our Mr Rison uses his real name?" mumbled the doctor.

"He either feels he has no fear of being caught or is not afraid of the consequences if he is," replied Winters, "personally I incline to the latter theory, he will be at least as old as "Mr Angels", his wife's dead, he hasn't got anything left to live for!" Holmes turned a corner and was about to add to their discussion when suddenly two immense arms shot out and seized him around the neck. Winters leapt forward and punched the assailant in the stomach, (practically the only place he could reach!) The man staggered backward against the wall and hitting his head on a protruding drainpipe slumped to the floor! Winters smiled triumphantly however the thug's cohort strode out from the shadows and grabbing the inspector by the coat collar hit him hard across the face then dropped him to the floor insentient. He rounded on Holmes and Watson only to look down the barrel of the detective's gun. The man grunted in surprise then after little deliberation turned and ran for it. Holmes scowled contemptuously and thrust the revolver back into his pocket; "Coward!"

Winters groaned and sat up nursing his black eye, "What happened?"

Watson knelt beside him; "The ruffian knocked you out!"

"I can feel that!" The inspector snapped then seeing the doctor's offended countenance continued, "I'm sorry, it just hurts that's all. They got away then?"

Holmes joined them on the floor and sticking out a hand he helped Winters up, "Yes." He answered simply.

The inspector sighed and began to dust himself off, "Only to be expected I suppose!"

Holmes cocked an eyebrow at the pessimistic observation but turned his attention back to the matter at hand, "I shall be stopping at Scotland Yard to do some minor enquiries before meeting this Mr Rison, will you accompany Watson and myself?"

Winters shook his head, "Alas I know I am prone to concussion from… similar incidents, it would be wiser for me to return home!"

Holmes shrugged in an effort to portray indifference, "Very well, as you wish. May we have an address for you so it will be easy to contact you tomorrow?"

"Lanestreet Road, number Twenty Seven, but you will not need it, I shall call for you!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5; "I am Mr Martin Rison!"**

Lydia stalked cat-like through the shadowy passage way. It was the dead of night and pools of moonlight bathed the hard mahogany floors at regular intervals creating grotesque strips of luminosity. She swung open the huge oaken door in front of her, careful not to make too much noise, and revealed a darkened room. Every wall of it was lined with massive, dusty books. You could tell just by looking at them that they were the types of texts to have miniscule words and double columns on every page. Lydia however was far from intimidated, and with a matter of fact expression predominating her thin face she approached a shelf and began to clamber up it. The climb was not strictly necessary, there was a ladder, but she had decided its usage would cause more trouble and vexation than it was worth, and the book she wanted wasn't that high. Groping with outstretched fingers she stroked its spine. She could feel the tips of the embossed title, "Hydrochloric Acid and related experiments!

By Dr Y.Writethis (?)" Lydia had been longing to leaf through its pages and engross herself in its information for nearly a month now, here was her chance! Desperately she grabbed at it again when suddenly the sleeve of her nightgown caught on one of the supporting screws. The structure bean to creak. She gasped then leapt back from her perch and backed out of the shadow of the ominous shelf. Then in an instant it gave way and tipping forward, hundereds of books began to cascade to the ground, pages flying everywhere. She screamed helplessly, the descent seemed to last an eternity but finally a resounding thump and the splintering of dry wood indicated that the shelf had collapsed. Lydia gulped, she could already hear running footsteps. She was in big trouble this time!

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The hansom bearing Holmes, Watson, a reluctant Norwood and a bandaged Winters had drawn up beside a small house on a reasonably respectable street. The four men dismounted and after paying the cabmen congregated on the front door step of, "Number four Streetroad Lane."

"Err… shall I knock?" asked the doctor. The others assented and stood back. Watson was about to take the knocker when the door was flung open by a towering, haggard old man; "It took you longer to find me than I had expected!"

He led them into a small but comfortably furnished living room, and motioned for them to sit on four large chairs. They sat for a moment in silence then he spoke; "I am Mr Martin Rison!"

"Why in the devils name are you so keen to be convicted?" cried a baffled Norwood, "According to Mr Holmes you murdered my ex-employer, that is an offence punishable by hanging!"

The man chuckled; "And when I am? I don't have long left to live in any case! Perhaps you wish to know why I killed him?"

"I imagine I could probably tell you!" drawled Holmes.

Rison laughed; "Go right ahead!"

"Very well. Your late wife, originally a miss Angels, was heiress to vast expanses of wealth and land. She moved from England to India at twenty in the year of our Lord 1858. She then later that year, married a certain Frederick Rison, who was incidentally your brother. They were happily joined in this fashion, although childless, until 1865 when his untimely death was proclaimed an accident. Mrs Olivia Frederick Rison then shortly went on to become Mrs Olivia Jason Ire in 1866. This man was in fact the recently deceased. They had one child, Miss Lydia Ire, born in 1873. Now, in 1886 Mrs Ire reported her second husband to have killed her first after he told her so in a drunken ramble. However Jason committed "suicide" before he could be arrested. Both mother and daughter believing him dead collected their fortune and returned to England. At almost precisely the same time you moved up from Africa and after making a pleasant acquaintance with Mrs Ire at a garden party you agreed to marry. Not long afterward she informed you of your brothers killer and so begins your hate of Jason Ire. Both of you thought him dead and so you had no suspicions when he arrived posing as a gardener! He then from this convenient point in the household killed Lydia, hid her body, it has not yet been discovered, and framed you. In 1889 you are convicted and hanged… or so we think. Your wife and her volumous amount of riches manage to buy you an escape via a persuadable guard and another criminal made up to resemble yourself! You went into hiding and Mrs Rison then wrote her will. However our incognito Mr Ire overheard and after tracking down the sole heir to the estate kills him and takes his place. This last process was made considerably easier by the act that he was a hermit and therefore few people had seen anything of him for most of his life. Then in 1892 Mrs Rison sadly passed away from natural causes leaving her fortune to the thrice murderer Ire. He inherited it and henceforth his features were plastered across the paper. You had seen his photograph countless times before and so had no difficulty in recognising him despite his age! Bent on revenge you decide to end his life and although you bide your time last week an opportunity arrived. So during his stroll round the grounds you advanced gun in hand. However upon seeing a supposedly hanged man walk Mr Jason Ire had a heart attack and died. You run from the crime scene and after disposing your superfluous gun in the bushes make your way back here!" Holmes let the last few syllables roll of his tongue obviously pleased with himself, "Tea anyone?"

Two of the five of the men sat in silent shock for a few moments, astounded at both Holmes's extraordinary deductive ability and the equally remarkable facts of the case. Finally the detective spoke, obviously feeling some sort of explanation for his extraordinary results was in order, "It was quite elementary really. Yesterday I spent an hour or so buried in Scotland yards records. But of course I couldn't have done it without two significant discoveries from our good inspector!" He smiled over at Winters, who grinned back at him thankfully. Norwood who had been desperately been trying to take in the cases slightly farfetched nature at last managed to speak: "Well, I don't quite know what to do… I mean even in the eyes of the law Ire deserved all he got…"

"Do not worry," Rison intervened; "I shall pay you any compensation you may require, my late wife furnished me with a very satisfactory amount of money before I went into "hiding"!"

Norwood's face lit up immediately, "Oh thank you sir, I really do appreciate it!"

It was half an hour later and Holmes, Winters, Watson and Norwood were taking a cab back to Scotland Yard. The latter two had been expecting a quiet trip but suddenly the detective who had spent the last twenty minutes in intense contemplation, spoke, ""Winters…" he paused as if unsure what to say and then continued, "If you ever want to… leave the force, you're quite welcome to assist me on my… err little problems!"

The inspector gasped, "Really? Oh well, maybe, I don't know how my career will progress, Oh damn! I mean I'll take it into consideration!"

Holmes chuckled and Watson attempted to suppress his indignation.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6; "Oh my god, I remember!"**

Winters was heading home. Everything had been cleared up. After much consideration in the courts of law Norwood was to receive Mrs Rison's fortune being the employee of its latest owner. Neither Norwood, Holmes, Watson nor the inspector had felt justified in turning Rison in, and the murder was proclaimed, due to lack of evidence a heart failure. The detective and Watson had departed back to Baker Street and now the Inspector was returning to his humble home in a hansom. He was mulling over the case, quite extraordinary, and the girl… Lydia. She really had come out of it with a rotten deal. Suddenly something clicked. The driver turned at the sound of a sharp scream to see Winters, white-faced and shivering in the corner of the carriage: "Cabby, get me to 27 Lanestreet Road in five minutes and I'll give you half a crown." The driver didn't wait about, and whipping his horses into action, set off at a gallop. Grasping at his knees, one phrase passed the Inspector's lips: "Oh my God, I remember!"

Three weeks later.

Holmes stretched out his long sinewy arm and rapped smartly on the door of 27 Lanestreet Road. Some time had passed with neither a case nor a sign of Winters. Therefore, for perhaps the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was making a purely social visit. In truth he was slightly worried; first he had called at the Yard for the Inspector, but Lestrade had told him that Winters had taken sick leave and had been off work for three weeks. Watson of course had accompanied his old friend, more out of curiosity than anything else, and so the two stood in apprehensive silence on the front step. There was a sound of hurrying feet followed by a female voice: "I'll get it!" and in a matter of moments the door opened to reveal the most stunningly beautiful, if slightly androgynous, woman. However, it was not this alone that made Holmes and Watson gasp, but her astonishing resemblance to Winters.

"Oh!" she began, "Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, I am Lydia Winters, Vincent's sister. "He's out just at present, but you're very welcome to come in anyway!"

"Wait a minute!" barked the detective shrewdly, "how, may I ask, did you know who we were?"

Lydia gulped. "I could tell from the same method of observation and deduction that you might use yourself, you are a relaxed, well-off English gentleman, who exercises on a regular basis and by varied methods and smells of tobacco. The good doctor is of similar social status, he exerts himself more frequently yet less strenuously than you. This on its own, I agree, would not be enough, but the fact that I am a great fan of Dr Watson's stories, have seen your picture plastered across 'The Strand' magazine, and would recognise you both even if you were disguised as the two halves of a pantomime horse, helps enormously!"

While they reeled in the wake of this, she led them into the sitting room, calling for tea as she did so. The three sat uncomfortably down on the elaborate chairs. Lydia opened her mouth to say something, but an oldish woman bustled in before she could. "Gentlemen from the city? Oh dear, I am afraid we are far from prepared, but perhaps they can tell me where you disappear to all day?" She laughed, half-jokingly, "Or why you came back with a black eye last month!" Holmes drew breath sharply and stared incredulously at her.

Lydia suppressed a look of horror that had momentarily marred her face and composed herself. "Julie, we have much of a confidential nature to discuss…"

"Oh, sorry Ma'am!" The old lady bobbed a curtsey, set down the tea tray and left, "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me!"

The room was left in an awful silence, "And you'll have understood what that means perfectly, won't you Mr Holmes?"

He turned to her and nodded slowly; "Absolutely!"

Watson glanced from one to the other bemusedly, "I however confess myself completely in the dark!"

Lydia looked wearily at him, I'll put it another way shall I?" She scraped her hair back behind her head and said in a deepened and familiar voice, "Inspector Vincent Winters sir, I'm a great fan of yours!"

Watson gasped; "You don't mean, no, it can't be! Are you… inspector?"

Lydia smiled wanly and let her hair cascade down her back. Holmes drew himself up to his full height, and appraising her with his sharp blue eyes began to speak stiffly; "Well, Miss Winters…"

He hadn't finished before she interrupted; "Miss Winters? Just because I'm a woman it doesn't mean my personality has changed drastically, or that I am in need of excessive politeness! Essentially I'm still the same person, don't you, can't you see that?"

Holmes sniffed then cocked an eyebrow sardonically and continued, "Inspector Winters then, I am able to see how you developed your disguise, an old acting carer I believe. Indeed a very useful talent, nonetheless I confess I am at a loss as to why you committed this… this atrocity!"

Lydia's face darkened; "Why do you think Mr Holmes? You really have no idea whatsoever? Very well I shall tell you, and what is more I shall shed further light on our… your previous case!"

Holmes interlaced his fingers and sat back in his chair, he was intrigued but his upper lip kept twitching as if in disgust; "Pray proceed!"

Lydia sighed sadly then began; "Firstly you must know that my real name is not Winters, I assumed it when I first came to London. My previous and true name was Ire. Lydia Ire in fact!"

"It's not possible!" cried Holmes, the verdict on her murder was death by drowning, and if you are truly her why didn't you come forward?"

Lydia sighed and tapped the arm of her chair in impatience; "Please, let me explain!"

Holmes rolled his eyes, "I think you are deluded but I suppose I cannot deny your right to speech!"

She smiled, "Very generous of you. Now where was I? Oh yes, as you know I was born and raised in India. People her say that great works of architecture and art, or even that I am beautiful! They have no idea, no possible way of comprehending the true, pure splendour of the jungles, the tigers their huge depthless amber eyes, and the pale moon at night caressing the trees upper branches. It is indescribable!" She paused for a moment, a far away look in-habiting her countenance, Watson cleared his throat loudly and she seemed to regain herself and continued; "My mother loved me and I think my father did to, in his own way! I spent my days resting or raiding my parents library, I had taught myself to read. As I grew older the books I stole became more advanced. I remember one particular evening especially. I realised I was out of reading material, and had crept into the library. However in the process of stealing "Hydrochloric acid and related experiments." Knocked over an entire bookshelf. My father was so angry it was unreal. I have told you of days… but the nights were different! I would sneak out of the house and down to the jungles where I would meet the tribe's people! I had become their friend over the years. Their customs and beliefs fascinated me, and in return for their hospitality I would bring them western medicines when their own failed. My life passed in this ecstasy until four weeks after my thirteenth birthday when I heard of my father's suicide and of his conviction of murdering my mother's former husband. I had no idea or a reason to believe he was still alive. We travelled to England, I had not wanted to go, what I had heard of it had not been good, and my predictions were soon proved true. Life was, to put it mildly, uneventful. Day after day after day of being the perfect little heiress! I had to act like a porcelain doll every minute of my seemingly pointless existence. Mr Holmes, could you bear it? No mental stimulation whatsoever! I was twenty-two and half mad with frustration when late one night some one crept into my room and pressed a chloroformed rag to my nose and mouth! I was briefly aware of some water but it was all very vague under the influence of the drug. I awoke the next morning in a miniscule fisherman's shack with no memory of my former life. After thanking him for his kindness I took my leave of the man who had plucked me from the water. I travelled down to London in an attempt to recollect my former life. At first I lived on the streets but within a year I had a job as an actress and incidentally a makeup artist with a theatrical company, these small lodgings and consequently a false identity, as Lydia (the only part of my old self I had managed to remember) Winters. I lived in relative happiness for another year until my company went broke and I was left redundant. I was in despair and about to take a post as a maid despite my complete lack of home economics. It was about then that I first began to read Dr Watson's accounts of your own exploits, and that's when I decided what I wanted to do. I used my acting and disguise skills to become a respectable man about town. Of course I didn't inform my landlady of my occupation, as you have just seen, for fear she might kick me out. So as I was saying; I applied for a job in the force. They laughed me of at first on account of my small… stature. But after I had displayed my intellectual abilities on a few trifling cases they were all too eager to take me on. I was successful and soon I was promoted to the ranks of inspector at Scotland Yard. My plan had worked, or at least it had until just now! Of course the Jason Ire affair bore some personal relevance, but I still had no memories of what had happened to me before being bundled out of the water. However when I was in a hansom on my way back here after our interview with Rison, something, I don't know, just fell into place! I was terrified, driven into paroxysms of old memories; I had no choice but take some time of work, although I had every intention of returning! Look gentlemen I know you may feel we can never work together again after this, but I beg of you no to inform the Yard of my true identity?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7; "And what were your conclusions?"**

No one spoke for a few minutes, Lydia hanging her head, Watson biting his lip sympathetically, and Holmes glaring furiously at a cream cake, his eyes cold. Eventually the doctor spoke; "Weren't the men's clothes terribly… uncomfortable?"

Lydia uttered an abrupt humourless laugh, "Try wearing a corset, and then talk to me about clothes being uncomfortable!"

Suddenly Holmes rose, inadvertently knocking over a china cup as he did so. "I am afraid Miss," he drawled with icy coolness, "That I cannot comply with your request. It is simply my duty to inform the police. Tomorrow at eleven-thirty precisely I shall collect you and escort you to the station so you can be present for questioning!"

"Holmes! She could go to prison for impersonation!" gasped Watson, but an irate glare from Holmes silenced him.

"Good day Miss Ire!" the detective spat.

Holmes strode out of the room with in indecisive Doctor following him. Holmes didn't loose his rigid expression while he hailed a cab or indeed on the journey back to Baker Street. Watson had tried to reason with him, but received nothing but a curt; "I can't forgive her, she lied!" for his trouble. So they trundled on in silence.

Watson sighed, it was much later. The detective had uncharacteristically retired early, leaving the doctor to smoke pensively in solitary. For the hundredth time that hour he questioned Holmes's rage, was he angry because she had broken the law, she lied, her disguise had taken him in, or that he had actually enjoyed her company, the company of a woman? None of it made any sense to Watson; the detective had often forgiven people whose sins were far greater than Lydia's. This time it was Holmes who was being illogical. Watson chewed absently on the end of his pipe, forgetting to smoke. Perhaps, he thought optimistically to himself, it's just a bad mood, and tomorrow he will wake up with a better humour and a revised opinion.

Lydia wandered in a morbid fashion from room to room of the lodgings gazing unfocusedly at the little paintings and photos that covered the walls. The seemed to have lost their effervescence and happy memories. She began to contemplate what was to happen to her now; she would be collected in the morning by a man she had once thought of as a friend, perhaps even lov-. She cut the train of thought short and shunted the idea away. She wasn't going to think like that; it was far too dangerous. So they would arrive at Scotland Yard and he would fling the truthful accusations at her and she would have no choice but to confirm them! Being Sherlock Holmes, if she didn't he'd just find some way to prove it. Several ways in all probability. And then prison, a fine if she was lucky… for fraud? What other crimes could she be convicted of? Part of her didn't want to know. In despair she collapsed onto a sofa. Listlessly running her fingers through her perfectly styled hair. Then in a gesture of absolute hopelessness she plunged her face into her hands. Truly nothing was ever permanent.

Holmes tossed and turned defiantly gripping the sides of the blankets with his long slender fingers. He had gone to bed more than four hours ago, but he couldn't seep. All he could do was think about her, her and what she'd done. He had been so sure of Winters, who he was, that he… she had been his friend. The detective snorted in annoyance, perhaps she still was, just because her figure was slightly different than he had once thought didn't mean…. He groaned and mentally kicked himself, he couldn't, shouldn't change his original, his correct judgement! Amidst the hazy network of images and dreams that comes with fatigue he found himself picturing her face. Looking up at him eyes pleading… she was definitely captivating. So intelligent, witty, intellectual, kind, beautiful, faultless… NO! He bit his tongue hard to distract himself. He couldn't think like this it was far too dangerous! Moaning at nothing in particular he flipped his pillow over in a feeble attempt to get some sleep. Then he resolutely slammed his head down on it and snapped shut his eyes, trying valiantly all the while to shunt all thoughts from his mind.

Holmes; true to his word left for 27 Lanestreet Road at precisely eleven o'clock, allowing half an hour for the journey. He had left quietly, without telling Watson, who had temporarily stopped talking to him. He hailed a cab and nodding absent-mindedly to the driver he climbed in. Reluctantly he began to consider his up-coming task. It was going to be difficult, no doubt about that. His fingers ran agitatedly along the interior of the hansom, immersing himself in the high quality wood. Decisions were more easily avoided with distractions. At eleven twenty nine and fifty seconds Holmes dismounted and paid the driver. He leapt energetically up the front steps to the door, which he rapped upon sharply at eleven-thirty precisely. Lydia had been waiting for him in the hallway a sick feeling rising in her stomach. At the sound of his knock she jumped to her feet, and standing on one toe to keep herself from crying opened the door. The two just stared at each other for a few moments their eyes meeting, each trying to haphazard a guess as to the others thoughts. Holmes coughed discreetly, "Miss,… no I apologise, Winters, may I come in for a moment?"

Lydia was surprised, not least because he had called her by the name she had used as an inspector. However she concealed her interest with ease and answered in a level voice, "Of course although you seem to be in already!" Holmes smiled at her sardonic remark and stepped into her living room.

"I've been thinking, since yesterday." stumbled Holmes unsure how to act.

Lydia cocked an eyebrow, and struggling to keep her voice neutral asked the question her heart yearned to say but her mind feared the answer of; "And what were your conclusions?"

Holmes smiled genuinely, "That I was too hasty in my decision to reveal your gender to Scotland Yard, and…" he trailed of hoping that she had not noticed he had been going to say something else. No such luck.

"And what?" She prompted the twitching corners of her lips betraying her excitement.

The detective rose from his chair and looked down at her, his embarrassment suddenly dispersing; "And, Lydia Winters, it seems I shall have to revise my entire opinion of your sex, as apparently I have fallen for you! I love you!" he choked, striving for the right words to explain himself better, but somehow it just wasn't necessary. As their lips met in a complete surrender, and as he drew her close, in that moment as they leant against each other all of the pain, the hurt, and the loneliness just floated away leaving nothing but sheer joy and each others arms! Still gripping onto her shoulders Holmes stood back, his deep, endless blue eyes wide with incredulity that another could make him so whole. Slowly he fell to his knees and looked up at her; "Perhaps it brings me down by doing this, but will you marry me?"

Her eyes lit up in amazement and she fell down beside him; "Perhaps it brings me down by assenting, but by god I wouldn't have it any other way!"

Epilogue 

Watson sat inhis old, worn chair gazing into the fire. Lydia and Holmes were out. The former had left her job as inspector and now lived with the detective on Baker Street, working on case, eating meals, and conducting experiments with him. They were to be married next month and neither looked forward to it with a qualm or doubt. On the whole the doctor was happy with the situation; he was content to live alone at his own house until he found another like Mary. He was happy for Holmes, he had a companion who could rival his own intelligence and draw his attention from the syringe to engage in witty, philosophical conversations and debates. Watson's head lolled to one side and he began to doze off when suddenly feet resounded upon the stairs and a huge, breathless man burst into the room; "GOD HELP ME! Are you Mr Holmes? I'm at my wits end!"

**The End (Of the story not my wits!)**


End file.
